Parents, Panties and Propriety
by Tallis224
Summary: London, 1971. Why does Mrs. Mallard make character judgements based upon a person's underwear? The question is answered at last, as Celeste learns the hard way...Rated T for language and implied situations. Story complete. Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1

_A "Ducks in a Row" prequel story._

_In any serious relationship there comes a time when you have to meet the parents. When Celeste meets the Mallards the word "awkward" gets redefined and we discover why Victoria Mallard judges a woman by her underwear…_

_Pairing: Donald "Ducky" Mallard and Celeste Porter (Original Character)_

_Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Ducky or anything related to NCIS. Celeste Porter, however, is my original character._

_Special thanks to Aunt Kitty for keeping me honest, keeping me at it and keeping me laughing!_

**Parents, Panties and Propriety:**

**Miss Porter's Rules of Behaviour in Polite Society**

**(Or: Celeste Discovers Victoria's Secret)**

by Tallis 224

_London, April 1971_

_**First Rule: If one must be fashionably late, one should have a damn good reason.**_

"You look fine, Celeste. Beautiful. Adorable. All the things you usually are. I just wish the skirt were a bit shorter."

I sigh as I apply my mascara. Ducky is all but leering at me. I don't need that right now. I'm edgy enough without being reduced to a sex object. Being a love-toy at the appropriate time is one thing, but at the moment, I'm a mess.

"Put 'em back in their sockets, Mallard. I've been agonizing over everything all day and I don't need to…" he comes up behind me and starts kissing the back of my neck "…be distracted." I pick up my hairbrush and swat his rump with a very impressive backswing.

"Ouch! Not fair, Love! And give me some credit. I know how nervous you've been about this since I told you my parents were coming down to London for a visit."

Nervous doesn't begin to describe how I've felt. I managed to avoid meeting them at Christmas because they had booked some villa in Spain and Ducky had to work the entire holiday at St. Margaret Mercy emergency care. I ended up flying home for a week (reluctantly).

I turn around to face him. "They won't like me. I know it." I let him take me into a comforting embrace. "First of all, I'm American and secondly, I come from a distinctly middle-class background. Oh and there's that other little thing about me being eighteen and you being thirty. That could be a potential bone of contention. Though less so for your parents, I suppose, than for mine." I perch my chin on his shoulder as he gently kneads my tense spine with his gifted hands. A tiny moan escapes me, then a sigh as I relax a bit. He can do that all night as far as I'm concerned.

"I love you," he says softly. "How can they possibly feel otherwise? They _will _love you, darling. I know it." He kisses me warmly, the passion just slightly more controlled than our usual osculation.

I finally pull away, smiling. "Oh dear. I seem to have smudged your lipstick." I hand him a tissue.

"Very funny." He wipes away the evidence of our kiss as I re-apply my make-up.

"You're nervous too. Don't deny it." I hold my earrings up to the light before putting them on. They are red crystals that dangle in a cluster of three hearts. My Valentine's gift from Ducky. The facets sparkle in the light like little flames. I love these earrings. They are something I would have chosen for myself, and Ducky knows me well enough to choose exactly the right thing. He is amazing. Almost perfect. Except when he is trying valiantly to distract me, as he is now…by kissing the back of my neck.

I scoot away, giving him a moderately dirty look. "And why would you want me to wear a shorter skirt? This one is plenty short enough to give them the wrong impression. Granted, it's the style these days, and I really tried to find something a little more conservative, but everything longer made me look about sixty years old."

He gazes at me affectionately. "I wasn't really thinking about what _they_ want to see. Just what _I'd_ like to see. And believe me, Celeste, in my carefully considered, most professional medical opinion, you have outstanding legs."

"You have the most one track mind sometimes."

"And you are almost unfailing in your ability to de-rail it." He hugs me again, giving my backside a lingering squeeze. "Mmmm…are you wearing the matching red bra and bikini knickers? I like those…"

"Not surprising since you picked them out." I sigh my most long-suffering sigh. "We really should get going, Ducky. I'd hate to be late."

"There is nothing wrong with being fashionably late, Celeste. _We_ were invited to meet _them._ It is expected that they arrive first and then we arrive later to join them."

"More of your Rules for Proper Behavior in Polite Society? I will never get used to this. At home we just show up and start eating. Eating is _very_ important in Lutheran culture. So is coffee."

"Well," he replies, "we both have a lot to learn, then." He gives me a peck on the cheek. "Shall I get your coat?"

I take a deep breath. "Thank you. Yes. I think I'm ready."

"Remember," he says as he helps me into my raincoat, "don't call me 'Ducky' in front of them. They hate it. It's either 'Donald' or 'Donnie.'"

I smile indulgently. "Yes, Sweets. No 'Ducky.' I also promise to refrain from mentioning your amazing ability to give…"

"Celeste!" He cuts me off, giving a warning look.

"…wonderful massages?" I grin guilelessly.

"Oh." He slips his arm around me as we head out the door to make the three block walk from my flat to the Martinside, one of London's most elegant restaurants. I notice the tension in his muscles, belying his easy smile.

"You really are nervous, aren't you?" I fuss with his soft blond hair – hair he's let grow longer since we met in September. He's been off active duty with the British Army Medical Corps for a year and he could easily pass as a very handsome civilian now. "We make quite a pair, don't we? Nervous Nellie, meet Nervous Nestor."

He smiles. "We may be nervous, but I think we make quite a pair anyway. Without the pressures of this dinner and all, I mean. We really have something quite – wonderful – together."

He never fails to say just the right thing to turn me into a melted popsicle. "We really do have something special, Ducky. We're as close to the perfect couple as anyone I know." I brush my fingers against his cheek and smile. "Of course it helps that I'm madly in love with you." I swing around in front of him, causing him to stop abruptly and catch me up in an embrace.

"Warning: I'm about to ruin your make-up again." He grins and kisses me before I can protest.

The three block walk takes far longer than expected.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Second Rule: Be unfailingly polite, even when being dissected. **_

We finally arrive at the Martinside looking like we have been caught in some kind of weather event, even though it is a fine, clear evening. I dash to the restroom to do some rather serious damage control and I can only assume Ducky does the same. We then check our coats and approach the maitre'd.

"We are here to join the Mallard party," Ducky states, with emphasis on the last syllable of his surname.

"Of course, sir." He beckons to a young man in the wings. "Johnston, if you please."

It's my best friend, Oliver Johnston. I chuckle quietly. He's currently one of my housemates while we're in London on work/study. Both he and my other male housemate, Ron Schillinger work at the Martinside, and Ollie just got a promotion from busboy to host. The pay is an improvement and the tips are far better. As much as I'd like to tease him, I can't. I couldn't jeopardize his new position.

"I know I have to pretend I don't know you," Ollie whispers, "but hot damn, Celly! You look terrific!"

"Told you!" Ducky replies.

I feel my cheeks start to warm. "You're just saying that so Ducky will slip you a nice fat tip, you dweeb!"

My outfit _is_ rather stunning. My third housemate and best female friend Vivian Hecht helped me pick it out. Viv has great taste and an eye for style that I can only sit back and admire. She looks great in everything, including the au pair uniforms we both have to wear when we work. She looks like a stylish Julie Andrews/Mary Poppins; I look more like the Elsa Lanchester/Nanny-From-Hell.

For this evening we chose a red satin mini dress with an empire waist. The hem hits about four inches above the knee. The neckline is squared and reveals what I consider to be a discrete amount of décolletage. Viv says I look sensational in it, an opinion upheld by my sweetheart and my best friend Ollie who doesn't even like girls. I am also wearing red flats for two reasons: because I'm still recovering from a very bad ankle injury and because I don't want to appear taller than Ducky. A two inch height difference is nice when you're not wearing shoes, and it's perfect for kissing, but not so great when out and about. He's never really said anything, but I really don't want to draw too much negative attention to myself tonight.

Ducky's hand rests lightly on the small of my back as he guides me around the room past elegantly dressed people. They look toward us as we pass. Some smile and nod, others just smile as we walk by. An elegant middle-aged couple occupies a table near the center of the room. They are also looking at us, but with expressions more veiled than the other patrons. They rise as we approach.

The resemblance between the gentleman and Ducky is striking. The father is an older version of the son; he has the same facial bone structure, the same ever-changing blue eyes, hair graying, but clearly once fair. They are dressed in the same color suits and are wearing their identical school ties. If Ducky grows older as gracefully, aging will be quite pleasant. But Mr. Mallard watches us almost impassively.

Mrs. Mallard, on the other hand, focuses on us keenly. She is ash-blonde and elegant, dressed in a light turquoise evening dress. She is petite, quite a bit shorter than her husband who is actually a couple of inches taller than Ducky. Her intelligent blue eyes miss nothing as she watches me approach. I am being scanned, assessed, evaluated. She takes in my appearance, my carefully considered outfit, looks me over head-to-toe. I feel like I've been x-rayed.

Her stern expression changes to a smile when she turns her attention to Ducky. "Donald!" She reaches out with a hug, plants a kiss firmly on her son's cheek.

"Mother!" He smiles and returns the hug and kiss.

I have become invisible.

Mr. Mallard stands next to his wife, all emotions veiled. He extends his right hand as Ducky looks up from his mother's embrace. "Son."

"Father." Ducky shakes the older man's hand. There seems to be a reserve on the part of both men.

Ducky steps back and takes me by the hand. I tense. He pulls me forward, places his hand on my back for reassurance. "Mother, Father, may I present Miss Celeste Porter? Celeste, I'd like you to meet my parents, Victoria and Edward Mallard."

I smile as warmly as I can manage under Victoria Mallard's stare. I extend my right hand toward her. "Mrs. Mallard." I am careful to use the preferred pronunciation.

She clasps my hand briefly, dismissively. She looks me over from a closer perspective as she might look at an aphid defacing a rose in her garden. "Miss Porter."

Well, lady, the rose is mine now…

I extend my hand toward Ducky's father. "Mr. Mallard?"

He grasps my hand with both of his and smiles slightly. "Miss Porter." He kisses my hand. "Charmed." His crystal blue eyes hold intent quite different than his wife's. I've seen the look often on his son's face. A combination of approval and interest with a touch of lust.

I feel myself start to blush and nervously glance at Ducky. He is oblivious to the implied leer. He smiles and holds my chair, indicating that I should sit down.

As I settle in, Mr. Mallard leans forward slightly, undoubtedly hoping to get a better look at my cleavage.

Ducky notices that. He gives his father a sharp look, then leans over and whispers, "Don't worry, Love. It's the first thing I noticed about you, too." He grins to try to take the edge off, but I'm still unsettled.

"May I bring you something from the bar, sir?" Ollie inquires professionally. He witnessed that entire exchange which should save me some time when I get home and start dissecting my evening to Viv and Ron.

"Single malt and a glass of cabernet sauvignon for the lady," Ducky tosses off with a wink at my housemate.

"Very good, sir." To his great credit, Ollie doesn't even crack a smile as he walks off.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Third Rule: Dazzle with intelligence, articulate conversation and wit, unless a hot button topic is broached. Then the gloves come off.**_

"Donald tells us that you are a student, Miss Porter," Victoria Mallard begins. "What is your field of study?"

"Nineteenth Century English literature, Romantic through Victorian periods," I answer too quickly. Ducky reaches for my hand under the table. He's trying to help but there is only so much he can do. My hand is icy cold as I slide my fingers through his.

"Not Shakespeare?" Mr. Mallard sounds vaguely disapproving.

"No, sir. Well _everyone_ does that, sir. I prefer boating in less busy waters."

Ducky quirks a smile. He loves the occasional poetic turn of phrase I throw into conversations. I'm not so sure how his parents will react, but all I can do is forge ahead.

"You see, Mr. Mallard," I explain, "the Nineteenth Century was a particularly rich, though underrated literary period. The English language was undergoing a subtle and distinct change from the formalization used in the Eighteenth Century to the more relaxed forms used today. Spelling was becoming standardized. Literacy itself was becoming more commonplace. Then there was the introduction of American forms and idiom to the language and the melding of the two into what has become Modern English. It's fascinating from an etymological point of view."

A smile creeps onto Mr. Mallard's face, his eyes twinkle slightly. "A young lady of some intelligence this time, I see, Donald." I think I hear something like approval in his tone. "She's clearly able to hold her own with you."

"Well, Father, you just touched off an avalanche. Our language is Celeste's favorite subject and she is very serious about going on to earn an advanced degree."

"Why on earth would you need to do that, Miss Porter?" Mrs. Mallard pins me with a cold stare. "I should think prospects of a good marriage would put all thoughts of that right out of your head."

I stiffen as I feel an adrenaline rush. That's a rather narrow view in my opinion. I feel Ducky's wince before I see it. He knows where this is going. It's a train wreck that I can't stop. The events are in motion and he knows how it's going to end. I feel a bit sorry for him, but it can't be helped. She's not going to get away with trying to trap me into the Nineteenth Century mindset she has.

"Mrs. Mallard." I sit up to my full height, take a deep breath, and look her directly in the eye. "there is no formal prospect of that at this point. And even with a tacit implication of such," I squeeze Ducky's hand, "I see no reason to ever put aside one passion for another. I believe that a woman can pursue both career and marriage equally. Both pursuits can fulfill different desires. There is no need to sacrifice one for another."

Mrs. Mallard purses her lips. "You would pursue a career at the expense of keeping your husband content? Well, that certainly seems to be the mantra of the modern, liberated woman!"

"Yes ma'am," I counter. "I believe that in the modern world the husband would also be pursuing his own career and would be cogent of keeping his wife content. It is a matter of equality. Everyone is entitled to be equal."

There it is. My philosophy on marriage out on the table in the first five minutes of conversation. That's what she wants to know anyway – whether or not I have designs on her son. Yes I do. At least as many as he has on me, all things being equal.

Of course, this brings conversation effectively to a halt. Mr. Mallard looks at me with a slight frown and skepticism. Mrs. Mallard's look is dark and color is rising to her cheeks. Ducky's expression is unreadable. He is still holding my hand under the table, but his head is down, not looking at anyone directly, ostensibly reading the menu. I feel his thumb stroke the back of my hand. His mouth has the barest hint of upturned corners.

We sit in silence for some time, reading the menus and generally avoiding conversation.

Mrs. Mallard sighs, shakes her head. "It is clear to me young woman," she says through thin lips, "that you know nothing yet of the complexity of keeping and holding a man."

I feel an anticipatory squeeze to my hand. Poor Ducky. He knows what's coming. I glance at him quickly. He looks resigned. I slip my hand out of his grasp and place it on the table.

"I don't seem to be having any difficulty with that, Mrs. Mallard. At least not thus far." I look pointedly at Ducky. I hate that he is in the middle of this. For what it's worth, his discretion is probably the best thing right now. Unfortunately, neutrality may not be an option if things continue on as they are.

Ollie arrives with our drinks. He has also brought another set for the Mallards. I give Ollie one of the dark looks he knows so well and he backs away quickly. He knows it's not going well.

"Miss Porter is right, my dear Victoria. She does not seem to have any problem at all holding Donald's attention. Nor the attention of any other man in this room." Edward Mallard smiles outright at us as Ducky places his hand protectively over mine. "In truth, I think our son may have, at last, made an excellent choice of companion. Despite the age difference"

"That's another thing, Edward," Mrs. Mallard replies. "Eighteen years old, Donald? What are you thinking? And what do her parents think?"

"I haven't met them yet, Mother. I had a brief telephone conversation with them over the New Year. They seemed…"

"…tolerant." I finish for him.

"And your father is a minister?" Mrs. Mallard seems appalled.

"Yes. My parents have an eight year gap in their ages, Mrs. Mallard. There is a twelve year gap between Donald and myself. And, my father trusts me. Surely you trust your son?" My voice is barely containing the sarcasm.

"Celeste?" Ducky gives me a pleading look.

"You expect me to believe that your parents know and accept that much of an age difference?" Victoria Mallard leans forward, her blue eyes flashing.

"Victoria, her father is a minister. I'm sure she has an upstanding set of values, right son?"

"Uh, well, yes. She does." Poor Ducky is getting one of his rare 'I'm lost at sea and I don't know how to row out of this' looks.

"Minister's children are the worst! Ellen Mallory was sent to 'stay with her aunt' not once but twice. Twice, Edward!"

"She married quite well, as I recall. An MP wasn't it?" observes Mr. Mallard.

"That is quite beside the point!"

"But, my dear, it shows that Miss Mallory was able to attract and keep a man, which seems to be a matter of concern to you." Mr. Mallard seems delighted to be making a point. "And she was able to do so despite an apparently checkered past. Which may only have been the result of innuendo."

"That girl was a trollop, Edward. Everyone knew it."

"Mother!"

"Yes, Victoria. I now seem to recall that your brother had some involvement with her. I suppose that would put you in a position to know what Ellen Mallory was like."

Mrs. Mallard turns a bright shade of pink. "My brother and half a dozen other young men," she huffs. "And that was just the first time she went off for a visit."

"My goodness, Mrs. Mallard. Such an interesting family history." I do my best not to let the evil creep into my smile, but I know I'm not entirely successful.

Ducky just puts his head in his hands and rests his elbows on the edge of the table.

5


	4. Chapter 4

_**Fourth Rule: When you are given a choice, select what you really want.**_

Ducky looks up. "Why don't we decide what to order?" he suggests gamely.

"A very good idea, my dearest Du – Donald." I smile to cover up the near slip.

We turn our attention once again to the menus, though Mrs. Mallard seems to feign disinterest. "Why don't you order for me, Edward?"

Let the man decide what you want. How quaint.

Mr. Mallard nods at his wife. "Of course. I thought the rack of lamb?"

"Lovely," she replies.

Ducky frowns. "But you hate lamb, Mother."

"Nonsense, Donald. I enjoy it occasionally."

"Not that I've ever seen." He looks at me enquiringly. "What strikes your fancy, Love?" He winces as he realizes his slight faux pas. He probably shouldn't have called me that in front of his parents.

The Mallards exchange somewhat disapproving looks.

I feel my cheeks warm slightly, but I smile at his favorite term of endearment for me. Reading through the menu choices I remember Ron and Ollie raving about the sole almandine. Since I love fish, I'd really love to try it.

"I would like the sole, please." What I'd really like to do is place my own order when the waiter comes. I don't mind Ducky placing my order, though, if that is how to keep a sort of truce. I'm sure it was bad enough that I had made my own selection, but Ducky had asked. It's 1971. He is progressive enough to know that a woman can make her own choices. "What sounds good to you, Donnie?"

"Are you that fond of fish, Donald?" his mother asks.

"Fond enough, Mother." He looks at me as if reading my thoughts. He gives me a quick smile and a wink only I can see. "But I think I'd like the Beef Burgundy."

"Do you care for Beef Burgundy, Miss Porter?" asks Mrs. Mallard.

I smile. "Please call me Celeste, Mrs. Mallard. And I don't especially like or dislike it. I'll be having the sole."

"You'll be having the…?" Mrs. Mallard seems taken by surprise.

"Sole," Ducky supplies with a grin. "And I, the Beef Burgundy." He squeezes my hand, then leans over and delivers a quick peck to my cheek, obviously not caring if his parents see this overt display of affection.

"Well, she certainly knows her own mind, Donald," observes Mr. Mallard with a smile. "Independent thinkers can lead to problems, but they are often well worth the risk." He glances at his wife.

Ducky and I catch each other's eyes and gaze at each other. For a moment, we are the only two people in the room. I adore him. He is not in the least bit bothered by my tendency to speak my mind. I become aware of another pair of eyes on us…those of Mrs. Mallard.

She stares at me long and hard, without judgment or evaluation or any of the accusatory looks she has given me thus far. She is looking at me and at her son and seeing us together. She is also looking past us, into herself. And she determines something.

She looks back at her husband with a slight frown. "Quite frankly, Edward, I would rather have the stuffed game hen."

Ducky and I do a double take. I start to laugh, which I quickly try to mask as a cough. Ducky just snorts.

Our waiter chooses to appear at this moment to take our orders. He approaches Mr. Mallard, a look of polite, professional interest on his face. "Your dinner selection, sir?"

Mr. Mallard looks somewhat flustered by his wife's declaration and the amused expressions on the faces of the rest of us. But he recovers quickly and addresses me instead. "Miss Porter, would you mind if I order for our party?"

"Not at all, Mr. Mallard," I reply with a huge grin. Ducky bursts into laughter.

"Well, then, we will have beef Burgundy for my son, the sole almandine for his companion. I would like the rack of lamb and my wife would –"he pause and looks at her as she sits, looking incredulously around the table, "— prefer the stuffed game hen."

The waiter maintained his most professional demeanor. "Very well, sir."

Mr. Mallard looks at me with a twinkle in his eye, "And may we have a starter of escargot?"

"Of course. Will that be all, sir?"

"For the moment."

"Thank you, sir." The waiter turns away.

"Does that also meet with your approval, Miss Porter?" Mr. Mallard is smiling outright.

"Escargot? Snails, you mean? It sounds very exciting, actually. I've always wanted to try them. Thank you, Mr. Mallard."

"Celeste is really quite fearless, Father," Ducky grins. The he leans over and whispers in my ear, "And about many other things having nothing to do with food." He kisses my cheek again, a longer, more lingering one than the last. Our hands are twined together on top of the table. Ducky brushes my just kissed cheek lightly with his fingers. I feel myself blush again under the scrutiny of his parents.

Mrs. Mallard huffs a bit as Mr. Mallard clears his throat.

"Are you all right, Father?"

"Donald," says Mrs. Mallard sternly, "I suggest you pay closer attention to your surroundings."

"Oh I am, Mother. And I find them quite lovely."

I roll my eyes.

"What I mean is that such displays should be confined to a more appropriate venue, Donald," Mrs. Mallard explains. "Some people might be embarrassed. Or scandalized."

"Well, I suppose that is their problem," Ducky replies. "Welcome, everyone, to 1971." He turns to me. "Well at least I know what I want for pudding," he murmurs, but not quite softly enough, judging by his mother's startled reaction.

Mr. Mallard, however, chuckles. "It's a good thing I ordered the escargot. I had considered getting oysters, but it is clear my son does not need them."

As Ducky dissolves into laughter, I blink once or twice as I try to process what I've just heard. I feel blood rush to my cheeks, but I cannot stop the laughter that starts seconds later.

As Mr. Mallard joins in, I hear Mrs. Mallard deliver a shocked, "Edward!"

4


	5. Chapter 5

_**Fifth rule: Dance as if no one is watching – unless there's a snag in your stocking…**_

The escargot is served in a puff pastry, all buttery and garlicky inside. I find that I like them quite a bit this way. Mr. Mallard explains that there are other ways that they are served and that this pastry is unique to the Martinside. He is very knowledgeable about many things and I'm struck once again by the similarities between father and son.

Dinner comes and I try to eat as daintily as possible. Table manners are quite different in England, so I carefully watch Mrs. Mallard and try to mirror her actions. She is graceful and takes tiny bites. I do my best to hide the fact that as the oldest of four kids (and usually one or two extra people at the dinner table besides…) I'm accustomed to grabbing whatever I can lay my hands on and shoveling it in as quickly as possible. Anything left on your plate or in the serving area too long becomes fodder for someone else. My brothers are champion sneaks. The fork marks on their hands have only served to make them quicker.

Mrs. Mallard has become the odd man out in the conversation cycle. Mr. Mallard seems interested in drawing me in, and he asks some very pointed questions. What is it like in Michigan? (Flat and lots of water…) Have I traveled much around the United States? (A bit) Have I been to the Grand Canyon? (No) Yellowstone Park? (Yes) New York City? (Yes) Washington D.C.? (Yes).

What are my views on the war in Viet Nam?

I'm not quite sure how to answer. My gut reaction is that the war is horrible and unnecessary. That it is a terrible waste of human life. I lost a dear friend over there.

And of course, Ducky has been there. He told me about some of the things he's seen which only served to cement my views. But Ducky has also told me that his father was a pilot in the RAF during the Second World War and that he was proud of his service. And proud of Ducky's volunteering for the Army Medical Corps.

I fiddle with my napkin. I think of losing my friend Peter. I think of some of the people that Ducky treated with burns and injuries so severe that they would never be able to live a normal life.

"I never want Donnie to go back there," I finally blurt out. "I don't want my friends to go… or my brothers. One is sixteen, the other is twelve. The way things are going, there seems to be no end in sight. And I want it to end. I want everyone to be safe and whole. We don't need dead sons or broken brothers or lovers that never come back."

"No, indeed, Miss Porter, we do not." Mrs. Mallard finally speaks after a prolonged silence. "My youngest brother died in World War II. An uncle was killed in the Great War. It seems to me that they really didn't die for the greater good at all."

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Mallard. And I agree wholeheartedly."

"And I agree with you. I do not want Donald to be sent back to Viet Nam."

Agreement. A strange feeling,

"But he will have to go if he is called again to serve, Victoria. He has an obligation," Mr. Mallard reminds his wife gently.

Ducky sighs. "I've heard they recently started calling up other doctors from my previous rotation for a second turn. It may be only a matter of time before I'm set to return as well."

This is news to me. He hasn't mentioned it before. Knowing how upset I was about meeting his parents, he probably didn't tell me out of consideration for my feelings. But now that all his loved ones are together, he feels as though he ought to mention it.

Still, this merits discussion and we _will_ discuss this privately at a better time and location.

Then, I will kill him for holding out on me.

Mrs. Mallard looks somewhat stricken, but Mr. Mallard tries to put a better face on the news. "He's not going to be leaving this evening Victoria. Why not enjoy this time together?" He waves over the waiter. "We would like to order pudding, my good man."

A sidelong glance with feigned innocence from Ducky and I instantly forgive him. And start giggling.

Chocolate mousse is a selection and I take it immediately. Ollie and Ron have brought it home occasionally and it is to die for. The men order Crepes Suzette and Mrs. Mallard chooses a fruit compote. Coffee is brought to accompany our desserts, and Ducky and his father have brandy as well.

A small orchestra has been playing all evening and there have been couples dancing on the dance floor. Ducky knows I'm not a very good dancer, but he asks me anyway, undoubtedly for an opportunity to talk privately. And to let his parents digest not only their meals but me.

"They like you," he says, taking me in his arms.

"No they don't. But I've become less odious as the evening has progressed. And when were you going to tell me about the possibility of returning to Viet Nam?"

"I only heard about it today. Two fellows in my training class just got sent back. Both of them are orthopedists, though, and I'm general surgery, so it may not happen." He draws me closer as the music slows. "God, you're beautiful. Not a man here can keep his eyes off you."

"Including your father."

Ducky is silent for a moment. "Father has a…history…of roaming eyes. It has been…difficult for my mother and him sometimes. They seem to have reached a truce at the moment."

"Your father is charming. Reminds me of his son."

"Dear God, I hope not." He draws me closer as the tempo slows again. My arms are around his shoulders, his are resting very low on my back. Scandalously low, but I don't mind. He looks at me intensely and sincerely. "No matter what happens, Celeste, you must believe I will never leave you." He kisses me softly. "I love you far too much to hurt you."

"I know that," I breathe into another kiss that we hold long after the music and the applause for the musicians has stopped. All eyes are on us as we break apart, slip our arms around each other and leave the dance floor.

Ducky holds my chair as I sit down. I feel a snag and the unmistakable tearing of my nylon stocking. Not good. I have nothing to replace it with. By the feel of it, it runs from the top, right at the garter, all the way down to the heel. I excuse myself and walk as quickly as I can to the ladies room.

Safely ensconced in a stall, I assess the damage. The run (they call them 'ladders' here in Britain – very descriptive) is absolutely huge. The garter fastening popped right through the top of the stocking and made a hole which caused a rip about an inch wide that extends the length of the stocking. Since I have nothing to replace it with, I decide to remove both stockings and the garter belt and continue the evening with bare legs.

This is sure to have an effect on Ducky. He'll notice, too, even if I don't mention it. Gives me something to look forward to when I get home…

I throw the ruined stocking into the trash and stuff the other stocking and garter belt into my purse. The upside of this is that I don't have to be as careful when I sit down in my short skirt. No telltale garters and stocking tops to worry about. Oh, yes. Ducky will notice. He's sure to.

4


	6. Chapter 6

_**Sixth Rule: Face the worst with grace and dignity. If that is not possible, run like hell. **_

When I return I observe all conversation come to a dead stop. Mrs. Mallard has the look of someone who has eaten something that didn't agree with her. I can only imagine the topic prior to my arrival.

Both men stand up and Ducky holds my chair again and slides his arm around my shoulders as he sits down. "Everything all right, Love?"

"Yes. Fine." If we were alone I would tell him what had happened. I can't do that now. I smile at my dinner companions and covertly point at my legs. A hand squeezing my knee confirms his suspicions. He grins.

"Would you care to dance, Miss Porter?" asks Ducky's father.

I stare at Mr. Mallard, my mouth partly open. "I'm sorry, sir? You wish to dance with me?"

"Yes, my dear." He smiles that almost irresistible Mallard smile.

"I'm afraid it's not one of my stronger talents."

"Nonsense. You and Donald looked quite fetching on the dance floor."

Ducky chuckles. "Yes, Father, but have a care. She doesn't follow especially well." He gives me a wink. "Mother, shall we have a turn."

"That sounds lovely, Donald." Her smile is radiant as she takes her son's arm.

The orchestra starts playing an up-tempo number. I try to identify the tune, but I can't. I'm not as familiar with Big Band music as I should be. (I'll have to pull out some of Daddy's old 78's when I get back to Michigan and have a listen.) I smile as Mr. Mallard leads me to the floor.

"I'm really not familiar at all with this dance style. I have no idea how the steps go." I apologize before we even start.

"I suggest you do your best to follow, then. I think you'll do just fine." He places his hand on my waist in order to lead me. I place one hand on his shoulder, the other laces into the fingers of his left hand. "That's it. You've got it now." Mr. Mallard starts gently guiding me into the dance. "You're letting me lead. Very good."

He pauses as we take tentative steps. "You're doing well enough with Donald and he needs a bit of a rein now and then, metaphorically speaking. And I'm quite sure you don't follow all the time."

"Oh, no. I certainly don't." I smile. "Metaphorically speaking."

"Mallard men seem to favor more independent women. Victoria had a mind of her own when I first met her. That and the fact that she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen got me interested."

"How did you meet?" I watch my feet as Mr. Mallard carefully continues to guide me around the floor.

"Her eldest brother was a year ahead of me at Eton. He invited Victoria for a weekend mixer. She came with a couple of her friends from school. She's two years younger than Wilton – her brother, and she is the only girl in the midst of five boys. She wasn't intimidated or shy around the boys at all. Had a very sharp way of cutting them off if they got too friendly or if she wasn't interested in dancing or the conversation. I found her delightfully refreshing and tried to spend as much time with her as I could. And she never seemed to be sharp with me. I was rather smitten by the end of the weekend."

I smile. "And the rest is, as they say, history."

"A surprisingly difficult courtship. She preferred the attention of many beaux, but always kept writing to me and favoring me. She was quite determined to get her university degree before she married. I received my degree in finance, the War became a threat and many of my peers volunteered for service. I was determined to do so as well, but Victoria…she told me the only way she would allow it is if she married me first."

"She asked you to marry her?" I grinned, then gave a laugh. "That was bold!"

"Indeed. And I said yes. We married in February of '39. We had no idea the Battle of Britain was going to happen the way it did, but we certainly knew the war was inevitable. When France surrendered we knew it was only a matter of time before we became the target. Poor Victoria just learned we were going to be parents when I was called up. She went up to my family home in Scotland. I wasn't there when Donald was born. I received notice by post. A son, Donald McCracken Mallard born 8:47AM September 14, 1940, eight pounds, fourteen ounces. Mother and child doing well."

"And you still remember that?"

"Probably re-read that letter fifty times a day for months on end."

"Mr. Mallard," I grin, "Where I come from they would call you a 'softy'."

He smiles at that and twirls me around. Remarkably I don't trip over my feet – or his.

I am completely won over. The man is charming to a fault. He is a patient and very good dance teacher. I'd love to take him to a discotheque sometime and see how he fares with the free-form dancing I'm more familiar with.

Ducky and his mother glide past, clearly enjoying the dance. But this information about Mrs. Mallard doesn't quite gel with what I've experienced this evening. The song stops and the orchestra segues into a slower song – one I recognize called "Moonglow."

"Would you like another turn?" asks Mr. Mallard.

I shrug. "Why not? You're being very patient with my clumsiness."

"You are not at all, clumsy, my dear."

"You might ask your son about that sometime. My clumsiness resulted in our meeting."

"Serendipity, my dear Celeste. Pure serendipity."

He guides us effortlessly around the floor. I'm still puzzled by the inconsistencies between young Victoria McCracken and the present-day Victoria Mallard. She and Ducky have returned to our table and are engaged in a rather serious-looking conversation.

"Why has she changed so?" I wonder aloud.

Mr. Mallard hears my question quite clearly. "Because the times were not ready for her. She felt she had to retreat into more conventional patterns. She was a young mother. I was a young bank executive. She needed to fit in with the crowd of other young mothers and their bank executive husbands. She wanted to be perfect, an asset to me, to be well thought of by people of influence." He sighed. "I think it ultimately caused a rift between us."

"You rather liked it when she chose the game hen, didn't you?"

"I think you were inadvertently a very good influence on her this evening. She will try to one-up you, though. She thinks of you as competition for her son's affection. Which you are, I suppose, though in a very different way."

"Let's hope so!"

"Indeed," he smiles. "Donald is quite taken with you. And you are very good for him. He chose medicine as a career, which was well enough, but he didn't seem to have a focus in his studies. It would be more lucrative if he were to select a speciality. Not to mention he could have greater influence amongst his peers."

"Perhaps," I defend, "he's just good at everything."

Mr. Mallard laughs out loud. "You see his generalization as an asset! You are a remarkable young woman and probably the best thing ever to come his way. Stay as you are, Celeste. Don't change. He loves you as you are, for exactly what you are. If you keep as you are, he will be with you forever. You will never have the problems…" He stops talking when he realizes where the conversation is headed.

I won't pursue his reference. Instead I say, "Generalization is my specialty. I'm studying our language which is a glorious, liquid thing, nothing at all like the solid world of numbers. To Ducky, medicine is that flowing, ever-changing language in which he is fluent. And he strives to put it together in ever more meaningful, helpful ways, so that as many people benefit as possible."

"A lovely way to put it, my dear, and I quite see what you mean.' he replies. Then he frowns slightly, "Ducky?"

I wince. "I mean – Donald."

The music stops. "I know, my dear. There is nothing wrong with using a term of endearment or two. Whether I care for it or not."

He guides me back to our table. As I walk across the floor, I feel a slight release of something around my hips, then a slight tickle as elastic slides down and stops at my thighs.

Donnie's favorite red bikini panties have decided to let go. And all I can do is keep walking. And I do. Right out of them.

They are on the floor, around my ankles. I step out of one leg, catch the other leg opening on my left toe and with more grace than I have ever mustered in a single act, kick them up into my left hand.

Or that is the plan.

Instead, I miss the catch and they fly up onto the table – and land in front of Mrs. Mallard.

Ducky stares at them, shocked. After all, he's seen them a few times before, though never in this context. He reaches over to grab them but his mother reaches out and picks them up by the broken elastic that used to grace my hips.

"Oh!" she squeaks when she realizes that this is not my hankie. She drops them and Ducky snatches them, stuffing them in his jacket pocket.

Mr. Mallard, who is standing next to me, doubles over in laughter. Meanwhile Ollie, who has appeared with the coffee pot to see if we want refills, has witnessed everything.

Victoria Mallard turns on me with more fire and brimstone in her eyes than I've ever seen even Daddy display. "You wanton hussy! I never doubted your intent all along. Now it is clear just the kind of young woman you are – immoral with designs to trap my poor Donald into marriage! How dare you!"

I stare at her a full ten seconds. I don't know whether to be angry, cry, or haul ass out of there. Ducky is trying not to laugh while his father is laughing so hard he's starting to cry. And me? I'm feeling quite a draft. I grab my purse and look at Oliver, the only truly sympathetic eyes in the house.

Ollie points to the closest door. "Kitchen. Turn right. Door to alley."

I flee into the night.

5


	7. Chapter 7

_**Seventh Rule: Friends are important in times of crisis…unless they fan the flames…**_

I run the three blocks to my flat in record time. I rush in, slam the door and scurry to my bedroom, ignoring Vivian's concerned questions. I grab a couple of towels, strip out of my dress and bra and turn on the bathroom shower. As I stand under it, the water is hotter than my tears as my sobs echo off the bathroom walls.

I dry off and put on my heaviest, longest winter nightgown, the one with pink and white stripes and ruffles that Grandma Porter gave me for Christmas. I also put on a pair of plain white cotton underpants – granny panties – and a pair of white cotton crew socks. I retreat once again to my room, lock the door and turn out the light.

I have never felt so miserable in my life. I cry into my pillow. I am humiliated beyond words. I am angry at Ducky for laughing. For not coming to my defense. For letting his mother – his bitch of a mother – have the final say.

I hate the Mallards as much as they hate me!

I know I'll never see Ducky again. I can't. I'm too humiliated.

And he won't dare see me. He'll just become Victoria's boy all over.

A knock on my door. "Go away!"

"Phone call," Viv informs me. "It's Ducky."

"Tell him a new medical discovery's been made and it's absolutely possible to die from embarrassment because I have. Then, hang up on him!"

She jimmies the door lock with a hairpin and lets herself in. "You know I can't do that, Lester." She switches on the overhead light, nearly blinding me. "I'll be right back. Don't bother locking the door again because I'll only break back in."

I sit up and draw my knees under my chin. Lester. She calls me that because when we lived in the dorm back at Luther, before we came here, there was actually another Celeste on my floor. Everyone started calling me 'Lester' to keep confusion to a minimum. She and Ron call me that a lot. And Ollie calls me 'Celly' and has since we were twelve.

Terms of endearment.

Like when Ducky used to call me 'Love.' Used to. Past tense. I bury my face in my knees and the tears start afresh.

"You left your coat at the Martinside. Ducky's bringing it over." Vivian comes back in and crawls into bed next to me. "Please explain what happened or I'll call Ollie and Ron at work and find out."

"No! Don't you dare!"

"I won't. Their shifts are over in ten minutes anyway. Come clean, Lester. Right now or I'll let Ducky in when he gets here. And I assume that's the last thing you want."

I nod.

"So? What kind of disaster happened?"

"This makes the Titanic look like a toy boat in a wading pool."

"And so this Night to Remember is one you'd rather forget?"

"In a nutshell."

"So, tell me!"

I explain what happened. Instead of laughing, Viv is completely sympathetic.

"Jeez, Lester. Dropping drawers right in front of the parents? I'd roll over and die, too." She wraps me in a warm embrace that only serves to start the waterworks again.

She just lets me cry. For as much as I love Oliver as a friend, he'd never understand this. Not the way Viv does.

The doorbell snaps us out of our shared sympathy. "Don't let him in!" I plead.

"I'll take care of it. Lie down. I'll get the light and lock the door." Viv leaves to answer the door.

I hunker down and pull the covers over my head. I hear muffled voices in the sitting room. I don't understand what's being said, but one voice belongs unmistakably to Donald Mallard.

"God, if you are going to have Judgment Day, the End of the World and all of that, you can go ahead and start right now. Please," I pray.

I'm sure the Big Guy is getting a chuckle out of that. "Hey, Gabriel. Know that Celeste Porter? She just sent up one doozie of a petition!"

A knock on the door. I lay in the dark, not daring to breathe.

"Celeste?" It's – Ollie?

"Go away, Oliver!"

"I'm picking the goddam lock, Celeste. And I don't give a shit whether or not you're decent."

"What are you so mad about?"

"Because Ducky got all over _my _ass when you took off." Ollie popped the door. I will complain to Mrs. Hardwicke and have her change the lock. He flicks on the light. "I lost a damn good tip! That's the last time I let your teary eyes make me feel sorry for you."

He is still in his work uniform. He toes off his shoes and sits on the bed. "He can be a real jerk sometimes."

"Don't I know it," I agree.

Ollie looks at me. "Yep. You're pissed off all right. Any other time if I'd said something like that, you'd be jumping to his defense." He hugs me. "Better finish crying now. I'm going to send him in. I volunteered to test the waters for him."

"Benedict Arnold!" I slap him on the shoulder.

"Ow! I'm no traitor! I'm just trying to restore the peace. However, I'll tell him to wear a helmet and protective padding when he comes in."

"Ollie. Please. Don't let him in."

He sighs and hugs me closer. "Celly, I can't imagine being in a more embarrassing situation than you found yourself in tonight. But it's over and done. You just have to pick up the knickers and move on."

"Oh. I feel so much better now," I reply sarcastically.

"The point is, you love Ducky. He loves you. And in hindsight (pardon the pun) you'll find this as screamingly funny as it actually is."

I fix him with one of my icier stares. He kisses me on the forehead. "It'll be all right. Even if you haven't won over the parents you'll still have each other." He stands up and grabs his shoes. "I'll get him."

I lean against the headboard, arms crossed. I still want to crawl into a very tiny, very dark hole and pull the trap door shut.

"Truce?" Ducky appears at the bedroom door, waving a pair of white Y-fronts.

"What the…is that your underwear? And when was the last time anyone mentioned to you that you are a lunatic, Mallard?"

"Ollie just said something about a crazy-ass idea. Viv and Ron just started laughing."

"They aren't as discriminating as I am."

"Hmmmm. And yes. They're mine. Be happy to show you from whence they came." He starts unzipping his pants.

"I'm not in the mood for…" A horrible realization strikes me. "Oh, God! I just realized! The song I danced to with your father…it was 'Moonglow.'"

Ducky stops mid-zip. He starts to laugh. Uncontrollably.

Slowly the humor of the situation dawns on me. I start snickering.

"Maybe," he finally gasps, "we should be thankful that you skirt wasn't shorter."

"Shut up, Mallard!" He will not be eased off the hook. I throw a pillow at him. He one-hands it and tosses it back in one smooth motion. It hits me in the face. "Hey!"

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry, Love. Are you all right?" He walks over to the bed and sits down. I scoot over to the farthest corner.

"I've become accustomed to wounded pride." I'm starting to get angry again. It might be funny, but it's also humiliating. I think about what he did and didn't do to make things better tonight and I start a slow burn.

"You could have at least," I finally say, "defended me – defended my honor. Taken the blame for selecting the offending undergarments for me. But no! You sat there, trying not to laugh and failing, while your father became a bloody hyena and your mother…Oh, God! Your mother! She hates me! She hated me before she even met me!"

"Celeste, that's ridiculous!"

"Oh, really? Well you didn't have to face two blue laser beams scanning you up and down when you were holding her son's hand. You didn't feel like a bug under a microscope every time you said something. We almost connected – once – over my views about your returning to Viet Nam. But that flew by and was gone more quickly than the elastic on my panties!"

His eyes are flashing that dangerous blue-grey. He is getting angry. "You have no idea, Celeste, how I built you up, tried to make them see how wonderful, sweet and funny you are. What I love about you. I've been talking about you for months, telling them how intelligent and genuine you are. And the first thing you do is start spouting off on your idea of equality in marriage. Jesus!"

"But you agree with me! The least you could have done was told them that! You didn't support me at all!"

"In case you didn't notice, I was between a rock and a hard place, Celeste. How can I choose between the three people I care most about in the world? How can I contradict one in favor of another? How often do you contradict your parents?"

"All the time. And I contradict you, too in case you haven't noticed. I had to be true to myself, Ducky. I can't be what you want me to be if it isn't what I am."

"I know that! Why would I ever want you to be different?" He's miffed, yes. But there's something else there, something I can't define.

I think about what Mr. Mallard told me while we were dancing. Ducky doesn't want me to change. He doesn't_ need_ me to change. He loves me as I am. I know he does, but I'm still angry. And hurt. Not to mention still stinging with humiliation.

"As for my mother," he continues, "she's had a lot to contend with over the years. My father is not an ideal husband. And believe me, darling, she noticed the looks and glances my father was giving you well before I caught on. How easy do you think it is for her to be facing competition for both her husband and son?"

I don't know how to answer. But I feel my anger start to dissipate.

Ducky places his hand over mine where it rests atop the quilt. "My father seems to know how you and I feel about each other. And though my mother was singularly unimpressed by you, my father was very impressed. He likes you, Celeste. He thinks you're good for me." He kicks off his shoes and slides onto the bed. "I think so too."

"Don't," I say, but he folds me into an embrace anyway. I don't fight it. I can feel his anger slide away, but mine still hesitates.

"Not only was Mother appalled by your red knickers – which I pointed out I purchased for you – very nice memories of the first time you wore them too…much nicer than tonight."

I snort. True enough.

"She was also upset that you ran off that way. What she expected you to do she never explained, just that you might have handled it differently."

"I wonder what she would have done?"

He stretches a bit, tilts my chin up so I'm looking him in the eyes. His expression is mild, belying a fierce blue twinkle. "Father said she kept on dancing."

My mouth drops open. "What?"

Ducky dissolves into laughter again.

"You had better not be making this up, Mallard, or you are going to experience excruciating pain before you die!"

Ollie, Ron and Viv choose this time to peep through the open door.

"Not resolved yet?" Ollie asks.

"Would you assholes mind your own business?" I yell.

"Open doors grant open access, Lester. Part of our initial agreement when we moved in," Ron comments with a grin. "Ol, get your movie camera. This ought to be good."

"Grab the microphone and sound pack. I'm pretty sure I have a couple extra film cans."

"Lights! They're in my closet!" Ron chortles.

"She's right. You guys are assholes," Viv observes. "Want me to close the door, Celeste?"

"No. It'll cut down on my punt range and I plan to start kicking asses any minute now."

"Want me to hold them down?" Ducky asks.

"Who says your ass is immune?"

"I'll hold his ass down," Viv volunteers. "I always have liked it."

"Hey!" Ron feigns injury. "What about mine?"

"Yours I love," she replies. She grabs his butt, he reciprocates and they start kissing. It takes very little to get those two started.

"Cut it out, guys." I want to start laughing but I haven't had enough closure. "Just get lost. All of you except the one with the medical degree. Him I need to talk to."

7


	8. Chapter 8

_**Rule Eight: "It is to the credit of human nature, that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed into love…" Nathaniel Hawthorne – The Scarlet Letter**_

They file out and seconds later I hear Viv's door slam shut. I get up to shut my door and notice Ollie has turned on the television in the sitting room. I turn off the overhead light and switch on the lights on the dresser and on my bedside table. I stand, hands on hips, next to the bed where Ducky looks quite at home.

He looks me up and down, as if he's seeing me for the first time. "What the hell is that?"

"A nightgown. A gift from my grandmother. I'm sure it would meet your mother's approval."

"Perhaps. But certainly not mine. You look like you're covered in some kind of ghastly birthday cake icing."

I glare at him. "Quit avoiding the issue, Mallard. What were you saying about your mother?"

He smiles and pats the bed. "Come sit down. I'll tell you."

"No way. I'm not falling victim to your sweet seduction. What I really deserve is an apology."

Ducky nods. "I know you do. And not just from me, although I doubt that my mother will provide one. But I will." He looks at me with sincere blue eyes. "Celeste, I'm sorry. I should have been more supportive of your positions and of your actions. I acted like…"

"…an asshole?" I finish for him.

"Yes," he nods. "I suppose I was."

"You suppose?"

He flinches. "You're right. I was."

The storm is nearly over. I walk over to the bed and crawl in next to him. I put my arms around him and kiss his cheek.

"Come on, Celeste. We can kiss and make up better than that."

"Oh, Ducky." It's hopeless. The man is irresistible. I melt into a long and eventually very passionate kiss.

"Isn't all that flannel making you terribly warm?" he finally asks.

"No. It got pretty cold on the way home, you know. And I haven't had an explanation yet about your mother."

Ducky sighs. "Hopes dashed again." He settles back and pulls me closer. I rest my head on his chest. "I told them this would take awhile."

My head pops up as I look at him. "Who?"

"My parents. They're waiting at my flat. I told them I'd fetch you 'round so we could start the process afresh. But that was after Father volunteered this bit of information, which has apparently been Mallard family legend for years. They'd never told me, though. But tonight rather forced the issue.

"Just after my parents became engaged they were invited to a Mallard cousin's wedding up in Scotland. Mother was thrilled to be able to meet more of Father's family and she always has loved a good party. The wedding was very formal and elegant and Mother had dressed quite stunningly.

"She took well to Father's family, his father, brother and sister, as well as the multitude of Mallard cousins. Everyone seemed quite taken with her except Father's mother and grandmother. They complained that Mother acted like a 'city girl' which she was, of course, having come from London. They had the notion that Mother had been of rather loose morals, but they had no way to prove it.

"Father assured them that his Victoria was very virtuous. And I have every reason to believe she was."

"Of course you do. She's your mother. Mothers don't have sex."

"Celeste!"

"Face it. The thought of your own parents having sex with each other is creepy. My parents have four kids, though, so it must have happened at least four times. Yuck!"

"Well, you've managed to keep your virtue through some pretty harrowing trials." He gives me a sidelong grin.

"Immaterial and irrelevant. Continue, please," I request.

Ducky shrugs and continues. "Mother had a dance floor dilemma very similar to your own tonight. She pretended to ignore it, but Grandmother and Great-grandmother would not. And as a result of lace being sewn onto the skirt part and straps of Mother's slip, which was satin and not sensible cotton, by the way, she was pronounced a loose woman."

"Oh. It was her slip, not her underpants. I see. My elastic fall from grace is still worse."

"By degrees only. This was over thirty years ago and things were much different then. Fortunately Father, Grandfather, aunt, uncle and a host of cousins came to Mother's defense and the situation was relegated to a footnote in family history."

I scratch my head. "But they never told you?"

"Haven't you also noticed that parents keep secrets about their pasts from their children? Between that and the fact that they never have sex, they are first in line for canonization."

I finally allow myself to grin. "You certainly have a good point there."

"So. Do you want me to help you out of that monstrosity of a nightgown and start fresh with my parents?"

I ponder this for a moment. "Well, I suppose I wouldn't mind a bit of assistance. As for going over to your flat tonight and making nice with your parents…do you suppose it can wait until tomorrow?"

He gives me a delighted grin. "Oh, I'm sure they won't mind. I'll tell them you and I are still talking it out and that you're very tired and would love to meet them tomorrow for luncheon."

"No! Not at the Martinside. How about at Singh's?"

"Indian food. No dancing. Perfect." He gives me a kiss, slips out of bed and heads to the sitting room to phone his parents.

I get up, rush to the dresser and pull out a drawer. I quickly slide off the granny panties and dig around in my clean underwear. Might as well make it worthwhile for him to stay a bit longer. I find the panties I want – royal blue bikinis with lots of lace.

And a worn out elastic waistband.

**END**

4


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